


a love song (for your boyfriend)

by Apricot



Category: Romy and Michele's High School Reunion (1997)
Genre: Banter, Developing Relationship, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Language, F/M, Fluff, Meet the Family, Oral Sex, Thanksgiving, Vaginal Fingering, help i'm in a relationship and i didn't realize it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-04-22 11:59:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14308185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apricot/pseuds/Apricot
Summary: She must’ve been out of her goddamned mind to agree to this.





	a love song (for your boyfriend)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SoundandColor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoundandColor/gifts).



> title and some of Heather's inner dialogue is credited to Luv Song by Jane Jensen, bless its 90s glory. ♥

This was a second-biggest fucking mistake she’d made this year.

Maybe she’d been drunk when she’d agreed. That was plausible. She sucked in a heavy inhale that nearly sent the filter of her cigarette burning into her fingertips. If so, there had to be some kind of ethical or moral loophole to get her out of it. Something that could involve her getting the hell back to LA, where she belonged.

She fumbled with a cigarette furtively, half shielding her eyes from the-- _fucking blinding--_ sun, and tucked herself deeper into the corner of the patio she’d taken refuge. She must’ve been out of her goddamned mind. She’d been drunk, or too high on endorphins, and that meant she wasn’t responsible for her actions or any verbal agreements she’d made therein.

It had probably, honestly, been the endorphins. She’d been too blissed out to think straight, half-draped hard pectorals and muscles and buried in hot, sweaty skin. She would’ve agreed to have fucking Thanksgiving on fucking Jupiter if he’d asked her at that point.

Not that this place was any less alien than Jupiter.

She had been _planning_ on spending Thanksgiving like she always had since the age of seventeen-- half-passed out on her couch with one hand curled around the lukewarm neck of a beer and the other halfway down her sweatpants. And any other Thanksgiving she’d experienced-- aka Thanksgiving at the _Mooney_ household-- meant one of those to-order turkey dinners and ashtrays that had been cleaned out for the special occasion.

Now she was stranded out in the goddamn wilderness and cacti, barbed wire, and Stetson hats. Clarence had two sisters. And four brothers. And parents that had both told her within the first five minutes of her arriving how _happy_ they were that she had come, despite the fact that she’d dressed head-to-toe in black and there were probably circles under her eyes and a big red splotch on her face where her cheek had been resting against the window of Clarence’s truck.

His mother said it again this morning. It was fucking weird.

Clarence and a few of his brothers-- she wasn’t sure which ones, probably Jim-Bob and John-Boy-- had gone out _target shooting_ , which she supposed was code for drunkenly pissing on cacti and venting their rage about their wives’ fat asses by firing handguns into the air.

Her turning down his invite to join had been another mistake, the _biggest_ mistake she’d made this year. She’d been trapped inside the house with his mother and sisters all goddamned day, and they’d seen it their mission to _get to know Clarence’s girlfriend,_ which was probably the Circle of Hell right after having a red-hot poker shoved up your ass. She supposed that there had to be something to the bonding experience of cooking Thanksgiving dinner together, but since her skills in the kitchen were pretty limited to pressing buttons and hoping it didn’t burn, it was probably better that she stayed away. Of course, that seemed to invite one of the other women to try and make conversation, and that was _worse._

 _Maybe she could get a taxi out here._ These people were fine, it was fine, and there at least wasn’t the slightest hint of a Confederate flag anywhere in the house, even if she’d spotted a faded Dole/Kemp bumper sticker on the back of one of the trucks in the driveway. But it was still clearly a mistake, a huge fucking mistake. One did not show up at your fuckbuddy’s house for Thanksgiving. And that was all she and Clarence _were._ She’d clearly been drugged or roofied or something before finding herself on a flight into Phoenix-- a fog that had lifted only after Clarence had picked her up and after they’d made out in his truck like she hadn’t just seen him two weeks ago. Then it had been two hours into Tucson and 30 minutes on a dirt road before they’d gotten to his parents’ house, where his mother had shown them-- smiling-- to their _separate_ rooms.

Separate rooms.

She’d shot him an incredulous look that had apparently gone over _everyone’s_ head, which had to be some kind of feat considering these people were all ridiculously tall enough to make her feel like some gothic dwarf in too-dark eye makeup.

Thankfully, sleep had come quickly.

“ _Heather? Dorothy-Jane, have you seen Heather?”_

She tried to melt into the shadows a little more.

She’d already spent the morning pinned under their chipper gazes, feeling scrutinized and in desperate need for another cigarette. Even the walls had eyes-- big, glass animal eyes that stared at her from their mounts, unblinking.

Thankfully, she’d spent most of her life learning how to skulk unnoticed from one side of the house to the other. She held her breath and ground out her cigarette against the side of the house as the woman-- tall, blonde, and with round cheeks-- wandered into the living room. She darted inside and made it up the stairs without managing to encounter a single one of sisters, thank Christ.

***

This house made her modest, hard-won 4-bedroom look modest in comparison, although it happened to be smack-dab in the middle of the scrubby-beige hellhole that Tucson called a _desert._ She started to head back toward the spare bedroom that had been allocated to her, when she hesitated. These people had locks on all of the doors of the bedrooms, and they weren’t even disabled, and they didn’t even _use_ them. So that was basically like an invitation for her to go wherever she wanted.

She headed to Clarence’s room.

If she wanted more proof she was on goddamn Jupiter, his room was it. Thankfully, there weren't anymore dead animals.

There were still pictures of dead animals, though. A younger, thinner Clarence, with several other men that looked almost the same, except broader and a bit taller and in some cases, older. She winced at the large, dead-- moose?-- that lay at their feet. At least there weren't any posters of women with huge tits tacked onto the walls.

Unlike her guest room, this room smelled like him-- that strange, musky smell that seemed so universal with teenage boys. But then there were also notes familiar to him and the same cologne that he liked, a fact that she did not _did not_ find in any way comforting.

Honestly, they weren’t even together. Not _together_ together, she didn’t know why they were fooling everyone now with some kind of show like there’d been any kind of agreement that they were _going steady_ or anything beyond fucking regularly when he was in town. And, sure, sometimes he’d come _into_ town for the express purpose of fucking her, but that wasn’t anything. She happened to be pretty phenomenal in bed. That was the reason. Or maybe he was taking some kind of vacation from fucking Bonanza.

There were trophies on the shelf. Actual trophies. She stared at the golden figurine, clinging to the back of an equally-golden horse.

Had she ever won a trophy? Or anything that her parents would have gone to the trouble of displaying.

Fuck, why was she even here? if she had any reservations that she and this guy were completely fucking different, here they were on display and probably dusted every other month for good measure.

There was the sound of truck tires on gravel outside of the window. She peeked out and exhaled-- thank Christ again, they were back. Part of her twitched to head down the stairs and meet him at the door, bury herself against his chest, but she dropped the curtain and scowled at the photo instead. Throwing herself at him was all shades of desperate that she totally _wasn’t_.

She turned and let her fingers trail over his desk instead, hesitating a second before she pulled out the chair instead and sat down, wondering how creepy it was to go through the drawers.

Well, they weren’t locked either.

Four drawer later-- with nothing so exciting as an empty box of shotgun shells, Jesus fucking Christ-- she’d found not a single trace of pornography, evidence of some terrible interest in entomology, or fertilizer bomb materials. It was suspicious.

Not great grades on any of the old school papers she’d found, either, but that didn’t matter. She hadn’t shared many classes with him, being in the accelerated track with Sandy in most things, and she’d figured from what he’d told her that it hadn’t exactly been his strength.

To say that hadn’t led to a very self-indulgent fantasy about what might have happened if he _hadn’t_ been such a fucking asshole in school would be a total lie, but most of the time she tried not to think about it. The girl she’d been in high school had been pretty pathetic too. That kind of embarrassment was something she liked to save up for mentally torturing herself on only special occasions.

“Hey.”

She flinched. Clarence was standing at the doorway, dusty and smiling a little, and she-- _caught--_ was nearly elbow-deep in his lower desk drawers.

“Oh. Hey.”

He smiled more at her, and something in her heart and/or chest actually twisted, which she supposed was guilt or panic. She huffed, sitting back. “I was looking for…”

“Yeah?” he said, stepping into the room, and she leaned back to scowl at him.

“I mean, it’s not even locked, you people have trust issues--”

That was as far as she got, because he was swooping down to kiss her, a heady, breathless kiss that didn’t help the blush in her face that she absolutely _detested._

“How are all the rabbits, Lenny?” she tried.

“We weren’t shooting rabbits,” he murmured back. She wriggled away from his hands, which were trying to slide around her waist and to her hips. He smelled a little like dirt and sweat and that should have _nothing_ to do with anything, except for some reason she wanted to wrap herself around him like a snake and drink it in.

That was a thought that belonged to old Heather Mooney, the one from high school that would’ve spent ages tracing his name over and over in one of her notebooks, pathetically. It wasn’t _her_ now. She slipped out of his grasp and leaned against the desk instead, trying to look nonchalant.

He didn’t look put-out. Instead he looked...oddly satisfied, like he had since she’d agreed to even come here. “How was it holding down the fort?”

She glared at him. “It was the worst. Your mother hates me.”

“Does she?”

He sounded like he didn’t even believe her, and while it _was_ a lie the fact irritated her. “And I don’t know how to cook.”

“I remember.”

Yeah, he would, considering whenever he was in LA they ate out or, more likely, ordered in. “And I don’t even know why I’m here, I should just--”

He kissed her again. This time, it was harder to block his hands. She’d unwittingly made it easier for him to crowd her against the side of the desk, and he leaned into her now, sliding in between her knees easily. She’d actually brought a dress with her to Tucson. A fucking dress, and it wasn’t even black. She wasn’t wearing that now, of course, because this morning she’d taken one look at it and decided _who was she even kidding?_

Maybe that had been an error, because he knew his way around the black skirt she’d chosen to wear instead in particular. His hands slid up, underneath it, her legs uncharacteristically bare since she’d left off nylons in deference to the fucking Tucson heat, even in November.

Her own hands were running along his chest, along the soft material of the faded t-shirt he wore, but she managed to wake herself up enough to lean back before they traveled beneath it. “Your parents are downstairs.”

He didn’t even bother to move away from her to respond, his lips buzzing pleasantly against her skin in a way that reminded her about every nerve ending from her breasts to her cunt, how did he even do that… “Mhmm. They’re busy.”

“So--” she swallowed. “We’re supposed to sleep in separate rooms--”

His eyes were warm when he finally _did_ look at her, and soft in a way that would’ve had her snapping in defensiveness if she also hadn’t been distracted by his hands. “So we’ll sleep in separate rooms.”

He reached down, and scooped her up, and Heather would’ve yelped if he hadn’t also made a move to muffle her mouth with his own. Her legs had to automatically tighten around his waist, or risk falling, and suddenly it felt like _such_ a better idea to kiss him back rather than continue protesting. What did she care if his mother considered her the LA whore who was probably also a witch out to corrupt her award-winning son? She probably, most definitely, kind of already hated her anyway, despite the gentle smiles and invitations and ridiculous small-talk.

His mouth was soft and hot and he walked them over to the bed, which probably wasn’t _that_ impressive, considering the short distance, so she tried not to melt completely into him when he finally pressed her down into the coverlet. But she couldn’t stop her hands from sliding under his shirt, finally, mapping his warm skin and tracing the lines of muscle. It definitely needed to come off, but when she tried to tug it away he only laughed, leaning back to look at her. This time, his grin was positively _delighted_ and she did melt, a little.

“I don’t think I’ve had a girl in this room before,” he said, arching an eyebrow.

She tried, and failed, to find a sarcastic come-back to that, but then he buried his mouth into the hollow of her throat and she exhaled instead. The shirt she was wearing wasn’t quite low-cut, and so his lips could only reach so far, tracing soft kisses along the edge and then in-between her cleavage. She bit her lip, sliding her hands into his hair.

The length of his body was already pressing her down into the mattress, something she had missed last night. It didn’t bother her so much when she was on her own in LA, but when he was here, a few feet down the hall…

His hands were already slipping under her skirt again, pushing it up to her waist, and she wiggled to try and help him with her underwear, impatient. If this was going to happen, better quick so they could both get downstairs before his parents-- or anyone else-- thought too long and hard about their absence.

He resisted it, though, stilling her hands. “ _Let me.”_

She was already wound-up, but she bit back her urge to ignore that, not quite sure if she wanted to completely secede control right now. But then his fingers slid along her thighs, filling her, and she couldn’t help but moan.

That was the other problem with him. He was far too talented at this-- hence, her ridiculous agreement to be here in the first place. She squirmed a little, under his hand, which had only dipped into her briefly to spread the heat pooling in her around her clit. He was teasing her, smooth and easy, and it made her want to jump out of her skin. She looked for something to distract herself. He was too out of reach to bring in for a kiss, so she threw her gaze desperately at the wall instead.

“Why _haven’t_ you ever had a girl in this room before?” she managed.

He shrugged, a gesture she rather felt than saw as he pressed a kiss to the inside of her thigh. His fingers crooked into her, two sliding deep inside and she gasped, nearly forgetting about her question for a heart-stopping moment as she pressed her legs wide. “Don’t suppose I ever liked one enough.”

Oh, _Jesus_.

She had to swallow _that_ bit of shattering information, though, because his next move was to let his lips move to her cunt, his tongue already setting to work, and the only sound her mouth knew how to make was his name. She quickly resolved that she was notgoing to moan _that_ right now, not with everyone moving downstairs, and knowing this place he hadn’t _even bothered to lock the fucking door._

He laughed against her when it finally slipped past her lips, long and drawn out and  _loud,_ and she tried to twist into the pillows to muffle it even as her hips started to cant toward him and the thrusts of his fingers. She was torn between spreading her knees wider apart and running her ankle against his back, needing more touch, more of him. He solved the problem by using one free hand to pin her leg hard against the mattress, sucking hard enough that she nearly saw white. 

So yeah. She completely failed.

***

Thank fuck this room also had a window, and that one of the drawers she _hadn’t_ checked had a pack of very stale cigarettes and matches.

Clarence had finally managed to lose the shirt, and she eyed him thoughtfully as she took a long, slow drag, letting her head clear. It was easier said than done, considering his hands were still tracing up the curve of her calf. He looked like one of those ridiculous cowboy fetish calendars, jeans undone and the five-o'clock shadow that was just so not her type. It was ridiculous.

“So, am I like...your girlfriend, or something?” she finally said, the words awkward and blunt but with the endorphins she couldn't bring herself to give a fuck.

He glanced at her, looking a little surprised. “Well, yeah.”

Oh.

For a second, there was a flicker in her head of that high school notebook, his initials and and hers intertwined and then she mentally slammed it shut, hard.

“Fine,” she said, carelessly, recklessly. “I guess that’s okay with me.”

He leaned down, and kissed the inside of her knee almost reverently. “Glad to hear it.”

“And you’re my boyfriend, or...whatever.”

“Mhmm.”

Fine. This was fine.

There was sound downstairs, so they really, _really_ needed to get down there soon, but she couldn’t quite make herself move when his mouth was tracing a slow, invisible pattern on her skin like that. He shifted, and she exhaled, leaning back to put the cigarette out quickly so she could turn her attention back to him instead.

Later. Everyone else was hopefully just _really good_ at knocking.


End file.
